Blood and Roses
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: A more heavily historical fiction take on Beauty and the Beast, focusing on the individual back-stories of Gaston, the Beast, and Le Fou, while at the same time adding a darker, yet also redemptive, twist to the finale. 4 installments planned...
1. Chapter 1: Gaston's Story

Chapter 1: Gaston's Story

"Turn and face me, beast! Turn and fight a real man!"

Gaston puffed out his chest and prepared to lunge.

He was used to this…used to the constant conflict of man against beast, having hunted in the woods surrounding his native village since his youth. His father had been a royal forester before him, and the son had learned the twang of the crossbow and the bang of the musket could be akin to music during his lessons in the art of the hunt. When his father had died, he alone had been the provider for his family.

At 16, he was called into the wars, along with all the other young men in the village, and his skills learned as a hunter caused him to defy convention and rise in the ranks, without the benefit of high-born connections. He was proud of it, proud down the drumming of his proud peasant heart. He beat the odds of blood and fire and survived to tell the tale, time and time again, to his fellow townsmen, gathered around with glasses of watered-down wine raised in his honor. The praise went more than a little to his head.

But his heart was fixated on only one of the village beauties, who seemed to be quite unimpressed with his oft-proclaimed exploits. She was not a true provincial, but Parisian born. She was beautiful, but not a garden flower easily plucked. No, she was wild, and had grown in free ground. She was fiercely independent, and her dreams were as broad as the waters of the Seine and as high as the city steeples. Her sense of sophistication towered over that of the ill-educated country populace.

To Gaston, she was like some rare exotic bird to be pursued on the hunt. He wanted to win her for a prize, as he had won merit in the wars, as he had won the skins of animals that adorned his cottage as trophies from the hunt. Now he wanted her to adorn his home as a good little wife to him, and raise him a good little family as his own mother had done for his father. Coming from a family of eight children, many of whom had died in infancy or early childhood, it was the only life he could imagine.

Gaston was a profoundly proud, but also a profoundly simple man, befitting his hearty peasant stock. The generations had changed little from father to son in rural Normandy, and from mother to daughter. This was a double-edged sword, preserving many good things, but also blocking out many others. View-points were narrow, and tradition seemed unshakable. Expectations were deeply engrained, and Gaston was no different than any of the others.

He was genuine in his desire for a family, and intended to do all that was fitting and proper as head of a house. He would provide for his family with his hunting ability and military pension; no wife or child of his would know want. His sons would be strong, he was sure, and his daughters attractive. He would teach his sons to hunt alongside him in the forest, and awe his daughters, as he did most of the swooning females of the village, with tales of his wartime adventures. This was the way the world worked; or at least, _his_ world.

But Belle, the Parisian beauty, was the daughter of an inventor, who had reared her in the ideas of the Enlightenment. Her mother had challenged all established prejudices and pursued the secret study of medicine, ultimately dying as a result of her care of plague victims. But she had been fearless always, and her daughter inherited this trait.

A whole new world was peaking on the horizon, and she wanted to be a part of it. She wanted to make her own mark on history, and see her own name written in its pages. To be subsumed in a marriage with a backwoods marksman, to be constantly pregnant and constantly cooking over an open oven, was not her idea of a blissful future. She wanted to see her dreams come to life, not crumble to dust and be swept away by a housewife's broom.

But this Gaston could not understand. His upbringing could not account for it in a woman. Surely he could bring her happiness. He was strikingly handsome, was he not? He had proved his courage and skill time and again; he was no foppish milksop. He was the town hero; why would any right-thinking female spurn him? He couldn't understand, and he wouldn't understand that the desire for freedom ran deeper in her than the desire for security.

But her resistance only seemed to heighten his desire. So he handled the concept of courtship just like he handled hunting, and he proceeded to pursue her like a flighty creature on the wing.

And that flight had led him to this high tower, and this crossbow cocked, and this beast before him. The time had come; the hour was at hand. He would show the world his mettle.

Staring contemptuously at the form of the hairy, horned creature, leaning despondently over the edge of the turret, Gaston decided this would be his ultimate chance to prove his manhood to Belle, by killing the beast that had held her prisoner. Yes, she had tried to stop him from the pursuit in town, blurting out something about the creature having once been a man. At this, Gaston had simply snorted. A man, indeed!

No, all he saw before him was a monster, and his hunter's adrenalin rushed through him as he affixed the arrow in his bow. He would make a rug of his skin, and hang his horns above his mantle, he silently vowed. He would win the ultimate conflict of man versus beast…

"Face me, beast!"

Slowly, the creature turned, and Gaston recognized melancholy in its eyes. It gave him momentary pause. What a strange thing, those eyes…did they mirror his own when his mother had passed from the fever, and he had felt that the only soft touch of his life in a hard world had vanished too?

But no, no, the hunter banished this thought from his mind. It was only a monster, and it was going to die. So the arrow was loosed from the bow and lodged itself in the beast's back. The wounded creature roared in pain and its eyes flared, blood-shot and blood-lusting, as it charged towards Gaston. Another arrow rent the air and penetrated the beast's chest, but did nothing to stop it from lunging at its attacker, and they began to struggle wildly at the far side of the turret.

Gaston received a hard knock as sharp claws slashed across his arm, and he was flipped over, dangling half-way along the guard wall of the tower. He tried not to focus on the sheer drop below, but instead dropped his hand to his belt and unsheathed a dagger. He had hunted bears upon Mount Ardennes, and the blade was specially crafted to cut through tough hide. He thrust it up, and it pierced through the creature's side. Blood spurted everywhere, and the beast staggered back, a groan of mortal injury drooling from its fanged mouth. It was panting hard now, and fell on its side.

Now was the end game, and the hunter withdrew a pistol from within his coat. It hovered in the air for a moment…and then, before it could be fired, an echo reverberated along the tower, of someone climbing the high stairs…

"Gaston, _non, arrêter_! No, stop!"

A moment later, Belle stood before him, her chestnut hair wild from the hard ride to the castle, her eyes shimmering with desperation. "Listen to me, Gaston, listen! He's not an animal…he's a man, with a mind and heart and immortal soul like you and I! He can think and he can choose, like you and I!"

"You think that is a man, _ma belle_?" Gaston chortled, gesturing to the fallen creature with his pistol. "My dear, muddle-headed maiden, you are becoming as mad as your father…"

"Gaston, listen…I know him! He has the soul of a man, I tell you! Do not let your eyes deceive you. We have spoken of art and music and philosophy alike! He owns a library, and has read it, and understands it! He traveled the world once, and has memories of his travels! Do you now see? He _is_ a man…"

"And I suppose I am not, for the lack of your fine education, or the taking of the world tour?" he growled, suddenly infused with fresh jealousy. "But that I have fought with my hands and journeyed only to follow the horn of the hunt or the battle, you see me as the east instead!"

"No….that's not true…"

"Yes, it is," he snarled. "You're so smug in your learning, your city ways, that all my efforts are as dirt to you…a man who has made good of his natural abilities and put them to use is but an animal to you, unless his schooling puts a fancy tongue in his mouth."

"You are not a beast," she conceded hoarsely, drawing closer to him. "But if you kill this man, you will have become a murderer."

"I have killed many a man already!" he shouted. "I have fought the English and the Dutch. I have watched Catholic and Protestant pitted against each other, like cocks in a ring. I have gunned down our own French farm boys when the starving time set them to rioting. I have had blood clog my eyes time and again, human blood, Belle. And do you think you can ever forget the sight of empty human eyes that you just sucked out the life from? Maybe…viewing them as beasts…makes it easier."

She closed her eyes tightly, noting something in his tone that struck her to the heart. "Gaston…I am sorry. I didn't understand before…"

"You never even tried," he spat. "You never bothered to listen, never offered such sympathy or understanding as you do for a mangy animal with lordly learning. You heard my stories with

boredom, and my conversation with disgust."

"Because you were boastful and brash, and treated me as battle booty to be won. Besides, all the village acclaimed you; any other girl would have been happy to…"

"Any other girl is not made of the same stuff as you. Believe it or not, you and I are closer than you think. We are both made of fire…"

"But you would douse mine, and brag of it as a triumph…to subdue me and subsume all my own dreams…"

"I would have _loved_ you, Belle," he blurted, and his voice sounded broken now. "As much as my father loved my mother, I would have loved you."

"I'm sorry…but love is not a thing that can be forced," she replied, almost sadly.

Gaston shrugged, and then made a jerking gesture with his pistol. "Out of the way, _jeune fille_."

"No! I won't let you murder him!"

"I said…out of the way!"

"It's not even a fair fight! What courage will it prove on your part? He's bleeding to death! Let me go to him…."

"Never!" he bellowed, grabbing her hard by the arm. "Never will I let a woman spurn me for a beast!"

"If you do this thing, there will be no beast here but you!"

"Enough…"

"NO!"

Flying into a panic, she started struggling with him, desperate to get the gun away from him before it was too late. It was dark except for the streaks of lightening shattering the sky in the distance, and silence, except for the cruel, crackling thunder that rebounded in the distance…and covered the sound of the pistol's shot, and muffled the scream of the woman who fell, blood-bathed, in the high turret where no one below could hear.


	2. Chapter 2: The Beast's Story

Chapter 2: The Beast's Story

There was indeed a time when the beast had been a man…then he had forgotten how to be a man, long before his form had been altered. As son of the Marquis, ruling over his sprawling estate, he had learned the powder-nosed callousness that came with inherited wealth.

He had been told his mother had been the pious one, the one who went to chapel daily and gave bread and roses to the poor. He vaguely recalled her putting him to bed at night when he was a little boy, and how his father had scolded her, saying it was a job for the servants. But that was all he remembered clearly, for she had died and left him before more memories could be formed.

His father had taken over from there, and the tenants had suffered beneath his iron fist. He had grown accustomed to the empty trundle of privilege at the expense of those who toiled in the fields. He had been handsome and proud, not unlike Gaston, but for less cause. For while Gaston was proud of what he had achieved with his own hands, through his own talent and tenacity, the young nobleman had been proud of his assumed status as God's gift to the world, by glaring birthright and golden baubles confirmed.

It was only during the suppression of the famine riots, when he rode at the head of troops to disperse the starving throngs, that his sense of invincibility had been tempered somewhat. The blood had sickened him in more ways than one. But he had buried the worst of it behind the glittering masks he wore to his gay galas and salacious salons, and he was praised by the brightest and the best for his flawless gourmet taste.

Then the night came…the final straw, the final rose, proffered by a haggard old woman, begging for bread and milk and shelter from the raging storm. And true to form, he had mocked her in front of his distinguished guests, and cast the rose back in her face. But when the hag revealed herself to be a ravishingly beautiful enchantress, he had stammered a vain apology.

But she would not be moved. Because she had found no love in his heart, she cursed him to become as ugly as his sins against the people. His hideous appearance would only be lifted if he could ever learn to truly love, sacrificing of himself, and be loved in return freely, before the last petal fell from the rose which he had rejected.

Oh…it seemed so long ago…

But then she had come into his life. It all had started out so very wrong, and yet somehow, beauty blossomed from it. By then, he had long grown accustomed to being a monster, realizing that his former grandeur had been eclipsed by embroidered myth and blurred memory, and all he could thrive on now was terror. If he could not charm people, he could frighten them, and still hold some power over them.

But Belle had not been cowered. She was fearless…and kind. He had captured her elderly father for robbing a flower from his garden…for how dare a commoner intrude upon the grounds of his betters? But then she had come, and nobly taken his place. And the castle that had been dead from lack of love began to breathe again. And the beast found himself starving for her companionship.

He was softened by her plight, and moved her from the dungeon to one of the finest guest rooms in the castle. This, of course, did nothing to change the fact that she was still a prisoner; and yet he could not bring himself to let her go, not so much on account of the robbed rose, as over his own desperation to have someone else present in his great, lonely hall. And no one in their right mind would ever stay there of their own free will.

But Belle would have none of it, and rejected all of his invitations to sup with him. The former nobleman was unaccustomed to such rejection, and angrily started to sulk. But ultimately, his self pity was worn away by his own guilt. He went to her again, unlocking the door of her grand chamber.

"Do not consider yourself a prisoner here…but as a guest. You are free to go anywhere you wish in this castle or upon this estate."

"But you are still keeping me from my home and family," she retorted sharply. "Is a bird forced to stay even within the most ornate cage truly to be considered a guest?"

"Can you not consider this your home, for at least a time?" he queried meekly.

"How can any place be a home away from family?"

"Can you not…consider me your family, for some small measure of time?"

Belle had given him a look both of astonishment and pity. And though wary, she did accept his invitation to sup with him in the main hall. They spoke minimally at first, all shrouded in awkward courtesies. Belle was noticeably trying not to look at him, and his heart sank, knowing that his monstrous features must be taking away her appetite. But after dinner, when she asked if she might play the ornate harp standing in the corner of the drawing room, and he willingly assented, he was mesmerized by the beauty of the melodies she wrought from the instrument. It had been his mother's long ago, but had stood silent for so long, he was sure that any song it had to sing had already died. But she was bringing it back to life.

As the day ran into weeks, Belle learned that her lonely captor was in fact a cultured man. He in turn learned that his beautiful captive was a cultured woman. They both shared a love for books, and the beast opened his library to her. Having on been able to read the few books available at the kindly parish priest's rectory in the village, Belle was ecstatic at this new world opening up to her. And the Beast, in turn, was ecstatic to see her so thrilled, which helped to allay his own guilty conscience for keeping her from leaving. Perhaps the books might even encourage him to stay of his own accord…

Belle seemed to have gradually learned to overlook, or perhaps even accept, his appearance, and they spent many hours discussing the things she had read in the library. Sometimes, she would actually read to him. The only one who had ever done that before had been his mother, long, long ago, and now, like an innocent little boy, he would listen, wide-eyes, as she read him stories in the library. Sometimes he would ask her to read him the same ones over and over again, and indulgently she would do so. He had grown so lonely, so very lonely, that the books had long ago become dead to him. But Belle resurrected them.

They started taking all their meals together, and sitting next to each other, not on opposite ends of that long table as they once had done, and Belle took the liberty to refresh his memory on table manners which, keeping totally to himself, he had let fall into some disrepair. But suddenly he wanted to do better for her than the simple meals of bread and stew they usually shared. He wanted to dazzle and to dine her, he wanted it to be as it was in the old days.

And magically, Belle found that it was she had wanted it, for the enchantress who cursed the castle had left some positive enchantment behind her as well to keep the beast sustained via invisible servants. And this night, this one perfect night, there was a feast. There was Chicken Cordon Bleu, Filet Mignons with Pepper Cream Sauce, Zucchini Quiche, Sweet Honey Bread, and Almond Crème Caramel Custard.

And afterwards, both of them dressed in the finest the castle wardrobe had to offer, they preceded to the ballroom floor. He wondered if he would ruin the dance, he had not done anything like it in so very long; and she was so beautiful in her brilliant yellow gown, and he was so very nervous that his legs were shaking. But she just smiled and offered him her hand. And then…they had glided across the floor, seemingly freed in their realization that they knew the same steps. It was both elegant and unfettered, and they whirled, and she saw in him the nobleman who had wooed so many ladies…yet never felt so free as this. It was as if the enchantment had transformed them into birds, and they could fly away together.

They went walking together across the estate, and talked about the seasons passed and their childhoods…and their dreams. When he had been a nobleman, he had taken the grand tour of Europe, and he told the mesmerized Belle of all the sights he had seen. He said that he wished he could do it all over again, with her by his side…but his face and form prevented it.

Then she asked the question that had been a long time in coming. "How was it that you became a beast?"

He stopped and gazed at her sadly. "Because I was selfish…and cruel. I thought only of my own pleasures, and never the sorrow of others which, in my position, I had the opportunity to alleviate."

"People yet can change, you know," she reminded. "And…for the better."

He stopped and closed his eyes. "But I have not changed so very much, have I? I imprisoned a poor man for the sake of a rose he wished to bring home to his daughter not unlike the rose I threw back in an old woman's face when she tried to give it to me in exchange for shelter from a storm. And now…" He gazed at her, his prisoner, and guilt overwhelmed him. "Would you…like to see your father again?"

Belle looked at him questioningly, and then nodded with eagerness.

"Come, I will show him to you."

It was a pathetic gesture, he knew that, but he just could not let her go, not yet…he could not bear to face those empty halls alone once more, could not bear to let go of this breeze of spring that had finally begun to thaw when felt like an eternal winter. So he showed her the mirror that had been enchanted when the spell fell upon him. And sure enough the image of her father appeared in the glass…but he was different now, worn and weary, lying feverish in his bed, calling her name.

"Father is ill," she realized with a start. "I must go to him!" She gazed up at the beast, and her eyes were pleading.

 _No, no_ , he thought desperately. _Can't let her go, mustn't let her go…if I do, she will never return and the spell will never be broken…_

And yet he could not resist those eyes, sorrowed with daughterly concern. Her beauty penetrated his beastliness, shot through and sought that increment of manhood left in him, and he found himself saying, "Yes, you must go…"

And he had made the magic mirror a parting gift for her to remember him by, and he opened the stables to her to take the fastest mount of her choosing. Then slowly, solemnly, he opened those great castle gates…and let his blessed bird go.

"Oh, Beast…" she cried, tears streaming down her face as she embraced him. His body, thought still that of an animal, suddenly felt more human, and his soul was softened by the milk of human kindness. But as he saw her ride away, he retreated the high tower of his castle, and roared so loud he thought his heart might shatter like that cursed mirror, and all the pieces would fall like the last petals of the enchanted rose.

Now, atop that same tower, he saw Belle fall victim to an accidental shot from Gaston's pistol, and again he roared, this time wrought by the lust for vengeance.

In spite of his own grievous wounds, he charged at the hunter like an enraged bear, and unleashed the fullness of his strength, pummeling the man against the stone floor of the turret. Gaston seemed far too stunned to fight back, and did nothing but stare up with a look of horror on his face as the blows fell, and the claws scratched across his face.

His fury reaching its climax, he seized the man by the collar with his paw, and dangled him over the edge of the parapet, relishing in the fear he saw spark in his eyes, and preparing to let go any second…

"Beast…stop!"

Her voice, a frazzled scream, caused him to turn to her. She was clutching her bloodied dress, propping herself up, and pleading with him, "Don't kill him …don't…if you do…you…become the beast…don't hurt him anymore…" She listed and fell back against the floor.

The Beast panted, staring at his victim, and the strange look in the hunter's eyes, a look of realizing at long last what it was to be the hunted, to have the tables turned in a flash, and to prepare with a surety to face the end unflinchingly. Whatever Gaston was, he was brave…but now, he was also broken by that self-same shot that had shattered Belle's breast.

 _A hunter's accident_ , Beast thought. _Yes, that's what it was…and now he's suffering…now he's afraid…_

And his heart was moved, unexpectedly to a pity which the hunter had refused to show him in his own grief. And he pulled him back from the edge, and pushed him with a roar to the far side. He could hate him easily enough if he tried, for he had harmed his precious flower, and she was now bleeding out on the ground. But Belle, alive or dead, had aroused in him a quality unique to the race of man: _Mercy_. And he could not turn his back on it.

Gaston's eyes were glassy, gazing at the blood-drenched form of Belle, and it seemed that deep within him, something twisted, and then snapped. Was he finally realizing that his pursuit of her beauty was now beauty's anguish that pulling up the rose was dooming it to wither between his fingers, leaving them stained forever red?

"I would have…loved her…" That was all he managed, in a voice ripped raw of all its haughty show, and his eyes burning out like dying coals. Then he turned to the edge of the tower, and looked down, and down, and down, and fell forward, into the chasm of forever, a tortured cry echoing off the ramparts as he hurtled towards the ground.

All the strength had long since drained from the Beast's hulking form, and he collapsed in a heap, all mortal thought fading from him. But then…he heard her voice.

"Beast…Beast!" She was dragging herself along the ground towards him. "No, no, don't die…don't die…"

He opened his eyes through the glass of pain, and saw her hovering over him, and the blood staining her dress. "Belle…" he choked. "You…came back."

She fell on top of him in a weakened embrace. "Of course…how could I not? Oh, Beast…" Tears ran down her face and into his own bloodied fur. "Hold me…it hurts…"

And he did so, as tight as he possibly could. "You should have stayed away…oh, far, far away…the curse has not caught up with you…"

"Let it…let me die here…" Her body grew increasingly limp, the life draining out of her in a steady crimson flow. "Don't you know… _Je t'aime_?"

"What…?"

"I…I love you…"

The words were spoken and the tears fell, and then…and then…the wind of change seemed to whip across the turret, with the sting of the rain, and his face and form seemed to melt into something altogether different than expected. The curse was breaking, and secrets were coming to light…

Human again, yes, human again…but the side of his face was burned out of its natural form. Oh, now it was clear…all the fine masques, the costumes to disguise him, all of it…was to hide this war wound received in the famine riots that had disfigured him.

He covered his face in anguish, the feeling of flesh instead of fur burning the palm of his hand. "Oh, Belle, you see? Even now…I am no man…you are dying, but not for a man, oh…"

She saw him for the first time, human eyes meeting human eyes, and touched that burnt side of his face, and whispered, "You're beautiful…"

And then, overcome, he had kissed her. Death played in that kiss, tingling inescapably, singing through the silent lips…first it stole away the peasant girl, her mouth unmoving and her eyes forever fixed. He kissed them closed, like closing the chest containing his only treasure, and then he too, slipped away. And the last petal of the old woman's rose fell silent in the darkened room, like a tomb awaiting resurrection, like a womb awaiting rebirth.


	3. Chapter 3: LeFou's Story

Chapter 3: LeFou's Story

Pierre LeFou had always been a shy boy, the most timid boy in the village, and had been the brunt of bullies since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. They would harass him at school, throw things at him, and mock him about his mother. Everyone knew she was one of _those_ women, who threw herself at a dashing cavalier going off to the wars…LeFou's father, who he had never met. And he highly supposed they would never meet, for when his mother had gone to find him, with her belly full up, he had coldly refused to claim the baby as his own.

But he had one friend in those days, a friend he would never have expected to gain, who would serve as his protector when they tripped him up and spit in his face as he tried to walk home from school. He would scare off the bullies, for he was the strongest boy in the village, LeFou's ultimate opposite. And the weaker adored him for it. Gaston was his hero, his idol, his best and only friend. He had taken LeFou under his wing, possibly because he liked the idea of having a constant admirer around him, reassuring him of his own strength, his own courage.

But regardless of the reason, they grew up together, inseparable in almost all their undertakings, and anywhere Gaston went in the village, LeFou was sure to be close behind, tagging along. People would mock him for it often enough, would throw jabs at Gaston for keeping him around, but Gaston would affectionately if patronizingly dub him his _petit frère_ , and they'd move on together.

When they were older, LeFou had even wanted to go to war with him, but he was notably unathletic and near-sighted, and Gaston had "helped" his friend by making much about it in front of the recruiting sergeant. While the dramatic humiliation was launched with the best of intentions, LeFou could not help but feel somewhat hurt to hear his idol belittle him in such a fashion…even if he knew it was all true. He felt emasculated, devalued…useless. Still, eager to please, he thanked Gaston for the "rescue" all the same, and the war passed uneventfully for him.

Some struggles still came his way. The war taxes hit hard, and his job sewing and selling garments at the local clothing merchant's shop produced less profits. But he still enjoyed making beautiful cloths for ladies and gentlemen alike. He liked the feel of the fabrics, the rhythm of the needles and thread. But people still mocked him for it. Woman's work, they said. And it was frivolous, they said, when real men were off fighting the English to prove their prowess. Men scoffed and women shunned him. He wasn't a real man, they said.

And then his mother died. His relationship with her had always been rather difficult, as she had never let go of the bitterness she carried over his father's betrayal, and her outlook became even more bleak as the years' past. Nevertheless, she had been all in the way of family that he had ever really had, not knowing his father's side and being shunned by his mother's. Without her, who he had supported for so long, he felt more along than ever.

But the constantly blathering tongues of the village were notably silent on this occasion. They didn't find it necessary to comment upon the old woman's demise, certainly not to her strange, simpering son. He was an outsider; why should they take him in, now? Yet there was one ray of hope. The only one to offer condolences had been a little girl who the Parisian damsel Belle had been teaching to read. Evidently she had also taught her something about compassion, something about loving one another as you would love yourself, written in a book Bell had borrowed from the parish priest.

The little girl had often been seen peering in the window at a pink frilled parasol in the shop. LeFou would see her there, and smile and wink. But on the day she came in the door and told him she was sorry, very sorry for the loss of his mama, he found himself giving her that little parasol from the window, a smile hiding the tears he feared to shed. He knew it would get him in trouble, but he didn't care. It hurt too much to be alone.

When the wars ended, and Gaston finally returned, LeFou clung to him more desperately than ever. But there was something of a change. While Gaston seemed content to have this loyal disciple at his beck and call, the wars had dented him, altered him. He spent more time in the tavern, girls on his arm and a pint in his hand. He bragged constantly about his conquests, in battle or in bed. And LeFou, always insecure, found himself feeling yet another emotion, primal in its intensity. It unnerved him, but he imagined it was jealousy.

LeFou found himself wondering what was wrong with him, of crying late at night, and knowing the world would think him a monster, a beast. They would run him out of town on a rail if they knew. But he could not help himself. He could not bear to think of anyone, man or woman, claiming Gaston in the way he himself wished to claim him with the heart. He wanted someone to love him, someone who could look past his own weaknesses and see the strength of his heart, of his love. He wanted a very particular person he felt he had grown to love. Was that so very evil? So very disgusting?

People said a man wanting another man was one of the sins that cried out to Heaven, that brought down fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorra. He wondered if suicide were a lesser or greater offense. They said it was the same, mortally damning. What did that mean, exactly? That his soul was dead, capable of no truly good thing? Did he not marvel at sunsets and the stars as much as anyone else? That takes soul, to be sure. Did he not know the feelings of passion or pity, love or loss, as strong as others…or perhaps stronger? That took soul. Was he not capable of exercising that golden rule of putting himself in the stead of another, of extending himself past himself? Was that not the definition of soul, confirmed in a little girl's smile as she tried out her fancy new parasol?

Maybe he was ill, maybe out of order, as they all would say, or maybe he was simply driven by a thing he himself could not fully understand, and a think which no one would be able to fully understand. Perhaps it was presumption for others to think they could manage it without living it. What he did know was that he was not dead inside, that he was not a beast. He was not spoilt goods to cast down a chasm. If he was truly wounded in some way…well, the entire world is wounded in some way. There is no escaping it, nor the individuality of it when the wound becomes personal. But then he had always known some wound or other, mainly in the form of love scorned. Watching Gaston, his only security, drift further from him just added to it. It drained him, isolated him, and made him feel even more unworthy than ever.

He wondered and worried what would happen if Gaston ever found out about his feelings. Surely he would explode in anger and revulsion, and then cut him off without another word. And that, LeFou knew, would shatter his heart beyond repair. He would have lost the only connection he ever really had, all for a fancy that could never be substantiated nor realized in any practical reality. He had to except that reality, but he still would do anything, make any sacrifice, to salvage the friendship. As long as Gaston still kept wanting him along for the ride on his adventures, LeFou was happy. Yes, as long as Gaston was happy, LeFou would be happy…

In an effort to salvage things, LeFou decided to try a reverse approach: help Gaston with his latest and greatest conquest, seeking the hand and affections of the lady Belle. Oh, he knew that Belle was far from being interested in Gaston – she clearly found him to be something of an uneducated lout, too brutish and boorish for her sophisticated tastes. He wondered if she ever bothered to see his good side, for he did have one, LeFou knew that. But sadly his vices all too often blotted out everything else in the eyes of others.

Alright, so the two of them were clearly incompatible. Belle had said it straight to Gaston's face and LeFou knew it well enough. While Belle was well-read, Gaston was athletically inclined. Initially, LeFou had tried to tell him so. But he also wanted to please his friend, wanted to remind in his good books, his most trusted best confidante who would go to any length to get him what he wanted. So he tried, in various ways, to build up Gaston's image and encourage him in his pursuit of the lady fair. It seemed as if the war veteran was in earnest, now, and that Belle would not merely be another frolic. He wanted to make her his for keeps. He was done with sowing his wild oats; now he wanted a wife.

But LeFou could not have known that the wooing would end in tragedy, end in disaster, end in a village mob storming the castle of a beast, a musket shot screaming through the dark, and Gaston plunging to his fate at the bottom of the highest tower. But fate was not that of death. No. Much worse than death, for a man of his mold…

When Gaston awoke from his coma, LeFou cringed as his friend realized he could not move his legs. He thought he was strapped into the bed. It had to be broken to him in the most painful way possible what had truly happened. And then the man of so very much composure had fought against the truth, tried to fight the bed on which he lay, and force himself up on his feet.

"Belle," he blurted as he fought, and LeFou held him down. "Belle…is this my reward for the night's work?" And he fought all the harder.

"Gaston, _être toujours_! _Calme-toi_!"

Gaston soon wore himself out; he was still grievously injured and unable to rise. He did taste some drugged wine being poured in his mouth, and hear the screaming of the mob outside, shouting that he was a murderer, that he deserved to be hanged. And to his shock, he heard LeFou defend him in the doorway, with a force of voice he never heard in him before.

The hours passed and he remained delirious, ranting and raving, cursing and calming alternately, in a fever, and then when it broke, it broke into sobbing, then hardened into rage, then broke again in guilt, over and over again.

"Belle…I killed her…"

"No, no, you couldn't have," LeFou blurted. "You loved her…"

"I _wanted_ her," he groaned. "She fought…the gun went off…"

"It was an accident," LeFou tried to soothe him. "You would never hurt anyone you loved on purpose."

"I am a monster," Gaston spit out, "a beast."

"No, you're not," his caretaker protested. "No man is a beast…and least of all you, Gaston."

"A man may become a beast," the bedridden man whispered. "She…she said so…and it is true…"

LeFou inhaled. "No man is a beast, if there is any love to be had in him. No man is a beast if any love might be hidden in him, or grow in him."

"I have loved only myself…loved only the mirror's shine…"

"Not all love knows the same conquest," LeFou murmured. "Not all love is meant for conquest at all. You have loved in ways you thought little of at the time."

"I have loved little and killed much."

"You saved a boy's life, who would have taken it himself, if not for a single friend," LeFou confessed quietly.

"Then if I am not a beast, I am a vegetable," Gaston growled painfully.

"You are a man, _mon ami_ ," LeFou assured. "She knows that now. Nothing may take it from you though all of the outside be shattered. It is carved out within. That, I think, was what she was trying to tell you, all along. She just needed you…to show that to her."

It was a long first day and night, long and stifling, as sick rooms will be. And when everyone else had abandoned the most popular man in the village, the least popular man in the village was there to nurse him. He was there, just as a friend should be. And for the first time, Gaston, in the midst of his despair, was glad that he was there. For once, he allowed his ego to bow out, and to silently acknowledge his need for another's strength.

And LeFou, in the strange twist fate had taken, felt infused with a new strength himself. He didn't know what nature of power it was, it was both filling and emptying him. He was determined to be there for his friend, no matter what terrors might be drummed up, from within or without, no matter what charges the villagers might bring now that their mood had swung against him, no matter what demons might lurk within his broken body, no matter the heights or the depths. He was there, and it was where he should be.

And he read to him out of the Bible…

"When David had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. Saul took him that day and would not let him return to his father's house. Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that he was wearing, and gave it to David, and his armor, and even his sword and his bow and his belt."

And Gaston pondered it all in his heart.

"LeFou," Gaston said quietly. "Where is Belle now?"

"Laid out in the castle," came the answer, "alongside the one she loves."

Gaston reached out his hand to him. "I must rise. I must rise and make my peace."

"No, you are too weak…"

"But I must…must rise. Will you not help me to rise, _mon ami_ … _mon âme et conscience_?"

 _A friend, a heart, a conscience?_

Yes, LeFou felt that summed up the meaning of manhood in totality. And that was a part of himself that could not be ignored. He would help him rise, if he had to carry him to the castle across his shoulders. He would help him rise even if crushed by the weight. And in being crushed, LeFou himself would rise.


	4. Epilogue: Shower of Petals

Epilogue: Show of Petals

The candles flickered in the silence of the halls, yet their swirling smoke whispered to each other that death had fallen on this place, that it lay moldering on the edges of fallen rose petals, that it sank deeper, deeper, with every hour that passed. And the ghosts of wolves howled at the mother moon, pregnant with potential.

They had come to gawk, those who had found them so entangled, the maid of the city and lord of the castle. They had marveled at them, gasped at his disfigurement, lamented her untimely undoing, and cursed the one who had sent a bullet through her, the jealous lover who hurtled himself beyond his own crushing guilt.

For mobs are cunning creatures, so very quick to project their own proclivity onto another, and thus free themselves of that which they should be facing. And now they wished to have blood for blood, to make up for the blood they would have shed, a monster's blood they now saw belonged to a man, and yet one who they saw little cause to grieve.

What a hideous spectacle, this! What a waste of a young blossom's devotion! But dear always held strange notions in her pretty little head. She always dreamed of journeying far beyond where good little girls would ever dare to tread. But surely, they are able to find sympathetic in their limp, embracing forms, and wrapped up as in a novel's fantasy, they wish to transform their meaner thoughts through public offerings of mourning.

Yes, they will have a funeral, a fine funeral, with priest and all, after they are laid out in state for the night, the long night, and the wait for the dawn. They were gather and gossip, and shed tears over their casket. For they are dead now, and somehow it is easier to have empathy for the dead than the living. They are seemingly defanged and declawed. Their oddities and ugliness are alike laid to rest and silenced with their cold hearts. There is a certain sense and safety and superior in weeping over the coffins of the dead, if the tears are all-too-easily dried.

But the rose waited in the shadows after their departure, and her petals waited through the night. For though the villagers had gone to wreak their wrath upon the killer, her spirit was a patient one, listening to the ticking clock that mourns, and the candle holder than trembles, and the dove-like feather duster that lay down her wings to die. She waited; though this night feels like a hundred years, she waited. She waited…for the groan of the great doors…

For the only one who could truly hold vigil had come. There was a scratching of cane against floor, of legs being dragged limply, of body supported by another. He should not have come, the other says, should not have come. He has been injured beyond repair, he should not have come…

But Gaston was there nevertheless, leaning on the faithful LeFou for support. The villagers would never have expected him to venture out to this place, and even they were too exhausted for the events of the past two days to continue their howling outside his house. And so they had slipped out. LeFou had tried to convince him against it, tried to warn him it was too much of a strain on him, that the doctor's had warned him against stretching that thin thread of life already so taut.

And yet the crippled hunter would have none of it. No, no, now that he was here, he intended to remain. With every effort at being dragged forward, he was more set upon his course, the only way it could be. Soon he was in front of the corpses, down on his shattered knees, forcing his injured spine to hold him up before the casket. He clutched it hard with both hands, feeling the smooth wood along the border, and the smooth material lining it. He reached further, deeper, and felt the cold smoothness of her hand with his own. It chilled him, chilled him down the broken place of his bones, the empty, split, surrender of it all...

And he fell down, his hands braced against the floor.

" _Je suis profundement desole_ …" he whispered into the dark. "And I did not even say goodbye…"

He turned and saw beside the coffin a small glass orb, and within was a shriveled stem and drying rose petals scattered beneath it. He knew in that moment he had to have them.

Slowly, he started to force himself up. LeFou started forward to him, but Gaston waved him back. "I must…do this…I must face this…alone…"

Up, up he rose, on his elbows, on his knees, with burning pain running like fire up a bent pine up and down his twisted back. And out he reached…he reached to the farthest extent of himself, a place which he had never before visited. Perhaps, for all he courage on the field, he had always feared it most. But now he braved it, and felt himself melting away in the white-hot extremity of it. He had been driven to the edge, to the brink, like a rushing rapids pouring over the falls.

He touched the glass, and edged it upwards, inch by inch, until it finally tipped and rolled over onto its side. Then it tumbled, and fell, and shattered on the floor. And yet the rose petals were his now, all his…to let go…

He scooped up the petals in his hands, once stained red, and felt their remaining softness against his fingers, akin to the softness of her death-chilled skin. The dead edges crumbled away, and only purest of velvet remained. He would give them to her now, his final gift…

And so Gaston scattered them open, and the pain shot through his arm as he released them over the dead, and he fell, face flat to the floor. And in that moment, that last melting moment in time, he knew he himself had shattered. And he knew intuitively they were no ordinary petals. There was a shimmering dance as the petals came to life and his own soul took flight from him.

He was not there to see the first stirrings of the dawn piercing through the room's stained-glass window, nor the chiming of the clock in the vacuum of time starting again, nor the breathing, at first imperceptible, within two breasts, and the wounds that healed, and the eyes that opened.

But LeFou saw, and was awed, and was grieved, and held the fallen soldier in his arms.

" _Adieu, au revoir, mon ami_ …"

Time rolled on and away. Many changes came and went with the rustling of the wind, yet some things remained steadily the same.

Each week, two roses placed on the grave of Gaston in the old churchyard. One was blood red, brought by the lady of the high castle, now married to her Marquis. She also brought life and learning back to the lonely halls and even into the backward village. The castle doors were opened, and the people given use of the precious treasures contained within the humungous, long-hoarded library.

Parties once more took place within the castle walls, and where people might once have remarked upon the Marquis' selfishness, they now commented on his unbounded hospitality. The scar on his face seemed to recede from people's minds the more they saw him smile. They said he made an admirably loving husband to his wife and father his growing brood of children.

Yet for all the fresh excitement in her life, Belle never forgot to attend the grave of the hunter from the village who had once desired her more than life.

The second rose place there each week was from a prominent tailor in the village. It was white, like snow clouds blooming in winter-blue sky, and grew fresh beneath the shop which had brought so many customers into town in recent years. He made fine gowns for ladies and fine frocks for the gentlemen, and many, many fine parasols to accompany the outfits. With the patronage of the Marquis, the people began to respect him and his talent more than they ever had, and the prosperity he brought did nothing to hurt that either.

Yet he never did forget his Gaston. He could never forget him, try as he might sometimes, try as he meant to move on and away. He knew the devotion in his heart would remain there through the years. It was knit into him as deep as the flow of his blood, and as deep as the roots of roses.

THE END


End file.
